Arkay's Mercy
by ImperialScout
Summary: After days of searching, the Dragonborn completes his pursuit of a necromancer who has abducted his friend, companion, and lover: Erik the Slayer. A short, complete story that can be seen as a follow-up to my earlier Dragonborn/Erik fic.


The Dragonborn had pursued the necromancer across a province, and now only a cave stood between them. It was cold and gray in a lonely corner of the forests near Falkreath. Light gusts of frost came from above in lazy curlicues, the skies uncertain if they wanted to paint Skyrim with the first snows of the year or hold on to a dream of autumn for a little longer. The Dragonborn looked up for what seemed like a long time, deep blue eyes reflecting the slate-gray expanse, then turned his attention back to the black gash of the cave entrance. A torn scrap of a forgotten banner stuck crookedly in the dirt fluttered in the wind, but all was still save for the Dragonborn's footsteps crunching against the frost and dried undergrowth. He stepped towards the entrance cautiously, one hand wrapped around the grip of the sword that hung at his side. The leather there was softened from long and repeated use, and he was glad to feel its familiar texture as he stood under skeletal trees, before a cave that nobody entered, far from any road, alone.

No sound came from the inside, but he still approached cautiously, crouching. Heroes who ran into the dark wound up dead, he knew, and even Skyrim's savior was unlikely to be an exception. He exhaled, his breath making a fine cloud in front of him as he crossed into the blackness. His eyes adjusted slowly to take in a view that wasn't there: just bare, rough walls; a passage that snaked away to parts unknown. But he knew what was at the end of it—the necromancer, and Erik. He fought against the memory: Erik the Slayer roaring with fury as the draugr stabbed past his shield, the Dragonborn leaping to one side to avoid a gout of arcane fire, the necromancer cackling as he knocked the wounded Erik senseless with his staff and used the opportunity to escape, hostage in tow. And so the Dragonborn stepped forward until the daylight behind him was consumed by the black reaches of the cave.

" _A necromancer?" he had asked, days before. Amid the tiles and tapestries of the Blue Palace, black magic seemed a distant threat, a subject better suited for the bard playing a jaunty tune for the servant girls on the floor below. But Jarl Elisif had nodded slowly, her pretty face drawn and pained._

" _Yes," she replied. "There can be no doubt, now. At first we thought it may been wolves or other creatures disturbing the burials—they've been more aggressive, you know, since the war started—but now the reports are clear."_

" _What's he doing with them?" Erik asked, curiosity in his voice. The Dragonborn turned to him slightly, fighting a look of bemusement. The finer points of necromancy were not something to ask the Jarl of Solitude, but then again, this was Erik. Court etiquette had never stopped him before._

 _Jarl Elisif looked a little taken aback, and to save her from the question, the Dragonborn said with gravity he did not feel, "Forgive him, my Jarl. It's been a while since a good necromancer came through Rorikstead, and no doubt Erik can ask him in person once we find him."_

" _So you'll take care of this for us?" Elisif asked, relieved. The Dragonborn dipped his head in a polite bow._

" _With pleasure, my lady." He held the pose for a moment and out of the corner of his eye saw Erik looking at a tapestry. He almost sighed. He lifted his head back up and smiled. "It is my privilege to serve the Jarl of Solitude, as always." He turned away and gestured impatiently for Erik to follow him. He waited until they descended the stairs and exited the palace before turning him with something approaching amusement. "By the Nine, Erik, one of these days I'll teach you how to talk to people."_

 _Erik gave a wide toothy grin. "Why? You talk enough for both of us."_

 _The Dragonborn looked at him. Handsome features and a mane of red hair; the easygoing, carefree smile. Fire and ice, that's what they were together. The redheaded warrior who was the chosen companion of the Last Dragonborn with his pale blonde hair and the soulful blue eyes that made him seem older than he was. They were two young men who set every town whispering when they arrived, and the fairest daughters of the finest families had an odd habit of being sent out on random trips to the market anytime Erik and the Dragonborn were known to be around, although there was a growing consensus that it was all in vain. The pale blonde hero would smile thinly and speak kindly, and take his leave. The redhead, who was generally accepted as being the more fun of the pair, would chat endlessly, always eager to learn more about this town and that family, until the Dragonborn would apologetically beg the villagers' pardon and have Erik follow him on whatever business brought them there in the first place._

 _But this time—for once, it seemed—there was no urgency. Together they took a long time at the market, having one of their quiet conversations until the sun was heavy in the sky. Erik did most of the talking, as usual. The Dragonborn was content to listen most of the time. He liked hearing Erik's voice, liked watching him as he strode through the market to examine what was new and on display. The last streaks of sunlight cut gashes in the sky as they walked into the Winking Skeever and settled into two comfortable chairs at the back of the room. A comely serving girl smiled coyly at both as she lay down two tankards of mead and bowls of steaming broth, with thick chunks of brown bread set beside. The Dragonborn said nothing as he matched her gaze, gave a thin, disinterested smile, and paid her far more Septims than the meal was worth._

 _They were late into the night before they talked about the necromancer._

" _What happens to the ones they bring back?" Erik asked, drinking deeply from his flagon. "Do they know what's going on?"_

" _They do," the Dragonborn said, nodding. "Unfortunately for them."_

 _Erik thought about that for a moment. "So necromancers can keep bringing them back? Over and over again?"_

" _Not exactly. Do you remember when we tracked down that vampire? In the hills above Karthwasten?"_

 _"What of it?"_

 _"After you killed the Death Hound, the vampire brought it back. Doing what you do best, you killed it again. Remember what happened?"_

 _Erik nodded, recreating the battle in his mind. "It dissolved into a pile of ash."_

 _"Aye. Kill something that's been brought back and it disintegrates. A mercy, really. Death should be the end of it. Let them be at peace."_

 _They spent another hour at the table, drinking and smoking their pipes, until the fire had died down to glowing embers and the last drunk stumbled home for the night. Erik locked eyes with him, a familiar look on his face. The Dragonborn smiled and stood, a little shakily. It had been a long night. Together they went up to the room, closing the door behind them, and with a sigh, fell into each other. Erik pushed him against a wall, fingers fumbling with the straps of his armor as his lips found the Dragonborn's neck again and again. The Dragonborn gave a low sigh, his mouth curling into a satisfied smile as the fingers of one hand twisted in Erik's red hair and the other wrapped around his waist, pulling him closer._

 _Erik found the right strap and the Dragonborn's cuirass fell loose onto the floor. Grinning now, the Dragonborn pushed Erik onto the bed and rapidly undid the fasteners on his greaves until he stood naked, smooth skin and muscles and scars golden in the flickering candlelight. Erik removed his clothes quickly and the Dragonborn leaned over him, taking in the sight of his muscled torso and the hair that got progressively darker down his chest and below his hips. It was the body of a farmer, a fighter, a Nord, and the Dragonborn knew it was his alone to appreciate._

 _"What?" Erik asked, his voice soft._

 _"Nothing," the Dragonborn replied, giving a crooked smile as he reached between Erik's thighs and heard him give a low moan. "I like looking at you."_

 _Erik pulled him closer until they were both lying in the bed in a tangle of arms and shallow, frantic breathing. His lips found every inch of the Dragonborn's body, his hands holding him close as the Dragonborn's back arched and his grip around Erik's arms tightened. The Dragonborn gasped, then groaned, and then Erik felt the warmth of the hero's pleasure; his own rising, brought to swift conclusion by the Dragonborn's deft movements, until they clutched each other closely in the warm room, breathing heavily._

 _"How many more nights like this?" Erik murmured after a while, his eyes heavy with sleep._

 _The Dragonborn pressed his lips against Erik's neck and held them there for a moment. "All of them," he replied._

He had finally reached the end of the cave. It was unexciting, as far as mysterious caverns went. The winding tunnel ended in a grotto that had been converted into someone's hidden living space. A rough cot was pressed against one side flanked by a rotting chest of drawers and a bookcase that was not enough to hold the tomes stacked up and spilling over onto the floor. The evil old bastard was there, the Dragonborn could see, hunched over an alchemy table on the far end, framed by two candelabras and behind him…. The Dragonborn sucked in his breath, relieved. Erik lay on a stone altar, his handsome face peaceful, asleep. Saying a silent prayer of thanks to Akatosh, the Dragonborn slid his sword from its sheath.

The necromancer had not heard him enter. He would not have this chance again. He sprinted across the expanse of the grotto, but the necromancer, alerted by some sign, ducked out of the way of the first blow and grabbed his staff with the howl of a cornered animal. Alerted by the noise, Erik awoke, and shakily attempted to rise from the table.

"Stay back, Erik!" the Dragonborn called, his sword ringing as it hit against the necromancer's staff. "I'm getting you out of here."

The necromancer sent a volley of lighting in his direction, but the Dragonborn raised his shield in time and staggered backwards on impact, hearing the wood splinter as the lighting licked across its surface. The necromancer prepared another spell, but was not quick enough. The Dragonborn closed the distance and swung into him with the shield, knocking him off balance, and with a roar of triumph, the Dragonborn stabbed Skyforge steel deep into the necromancer's throat. Blood sprayed over the sword and the Dragonborn watched with grim satisfaction as the old man's eyes rolled back in his head. He slid the blade out and let the necromancer's body fall with a thud, blood spurting over the cavern floor. Breathing heavily, the Dragonborn sheathed his sword.

"Thank you," Erik said behind him, his voice strangely distant and hoarse.

Smiling now, the Dragonborn turned. "Erik," he began, and then he stopped, frozen in place, watching helplessly as Erik took a step forward, a look of supreme longing and sadness in his face, and crumbled into ash.


End file.
